


The Battle of Brandywine Creek

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [5]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Battle, Established Relationship, Historical, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 17:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13686018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: The British march toward Philadelphia and a battle begins at Brandywine Creek; Hamilton and Laurens fight for the cause, their country and each other.





	The Battle of Brandywine Creek

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the stories in this series you can read independently. However, to get the full effect of this story you should read the one right before it [Prelude to Brandywine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12701544). It is not 100% essential however if you just want to dive into the main battle.
> 
> Also, you will see a first here in my lams writing, shifting perspectives!

Alexander Hamilton, John Laurens, and the Marquis de Lafayette return to Continental Army headquarters late in the afternoon after a reconnoitering mission. They gallop past men at work and barely slow in time as they reach the stabling area made for their short stay in this area of Pennsylvania. Their mission originally consisted of searching the surrounding woods for any sign of the British advance. Their mission, as can be narrowly defined, was a success as they did indeed find evidence of the British army.

Hamilton eases down from his horse with help from Laurens, his knee stabbing with pain but still holding his weight. “We must speak with the General at once.”

“In your states?” Laurens asks as he hurries to as much catch as help Lafayette down off his own horse. “We have only just escaped a skirmish with Loyalist rangers and you are both injured!”

“Would you rather us wait and the advance reach our troops with no warning while I rest my knee?”

“The Marquis was shot!”

Lafayette shakes his head, his one arm over Laurens’ shoulder. “À peine.”

“A graze of a bullet still means you were shot!” Laurens repeats in his face so the Frenchmen huffs loudly and turns away.

Hamilton worries his lip. “When we tell the General –”

“Non!” Lafayette suddenly snaps. “Do not tell the General!”

“Marquis…” Laurens says as he supports the man’s weight.

The Marquis pushes Laurens off with one hand, the other held against the wound in his side where the bullet from their skirmish grazed him. “Non, do not tell. I… would fight.” He attempts to plant his feet but remains unsteady. “If the General should know…” Lafayette shakes his head.

“He would stop you…” Hamilton says quietly.

The three of them stare at each other. The horse beside Hamilton stomps his foot in the dirt as if adding to the silent discussion. Then a Private appears around the edge of the wooden structure.

“Colonels?” He salutes quickly. “We saw you pass and Colonel Tilghman asked after you.”

“I shall tell the General,” Laurens says as he starts to march past the Private. “We cannot afford a lapse of time.”

“Wait,” Hamilton says so Laurens stops walking. “The General will ask why only one man should report when he sent three.” Hamilton looks at the Private quickly. “You, Private…?”

“Borden, sir.”

“Borden, see the Marquis taken to one of the doctors but do so with discretion and no not spread any news of his injury.”

Lafayette gives Hamilton an incredulous look. “Vous pensez cacher cela?”

Hamilton presses on. “I shall accompany you, Laurens, and we may tell the General of our skirmish. My injury is proof enough and not a deterrent from my service should a battle come.”

It is Laurens’ turn to turn a disbelieving look upon Hamilton. “You think so?”

“I do.”

“If you cannot ride…”

“I rode here!”

“Arrêtez!” Lafayette interrupts, moving toward the Private and slinging the arm not holding his wounded side over the private’s shoulder. “Go see the General. I shall, eh, réparer.”

“Tell no one,” Hamilton says, pointing significantly at the Private.

He only nods and helps the Marquis walk as resolutely as Lafayette appears able from the stable. Hamilton turns back to Laurens. Laurens nods once and the two of them hurry out and up the hill. 

They make their way toward a two level stone farmhouse belonging to one Benjamin Ring. Hamilton winces more and more as they walk until Laurens moves flush against his side and wraps an arm around Hamilton’s back to help support his progress. Hamilton leans into the touch. He thinks of a kiss in private, of Laurens' hands in his hair. He thinks of Laurens' slashing a sword across a man's throat to save Hamilton's life. He thinks of a measure of closeness between them he does not fully understand yet, only just begun, but something he must cling onto, especially with battle on the horizon.

Then Laurens speaks, “And you think to fight in such a state?”

Hamilton grimaces. “I need but a day’s rest and we should have that time.”

“You hope.”

“Oh? On which account?”

“Both.”

As they near the front of the house, they see Tench Tilghman appear upon the opening of the door. He waves a hand at them as they approach.

“Laurens, Hamilton. I had heard of your return. The General is anxious to – Why Hamilton, are you unwell?”

Hamilton frowns. “I am perfectly well.”

“Then why should Laurens need to support you?”

“Because he is a steadfast friend.”

Laurens laughs once just as Tilghman scoffs and comes down the steps to aid them. Hamilton sees Tilghman’s eyes widen at the blood on Laurens’ uniform. “What happened?”

“Queen’s Rangers,” Laurens supplies as the three of them move inside the house.

“Are you injur–” Tilghman starts to ask Laurens but Laurens interrupts him with a clipped, “No.”

They limp past the aide office in the front parlor. Hamilton sees Richard Kidder Meade and Robert Hason Harrison look up but then they continue down the hall into the back study. Just earlier that morning upon their encampment, the General took over Mr. Ring’s office for his use. Tilghman walks ahead of them, knocking on the door though it is cracked open.

“Your excellency, Laurens and Hamilton have returned.”

Before Tilghman barely finishes his sentence, Laurens and Hamilton push in behind him. The General stands up abruptly from the desk next to the doorway as Laurens helps Hamilton to a chair, protocol be damned. Laurens salutes for the both of them as Hamilton catches his breath and fights back nausea. He tries not to show how much his knee hurts but assumes he succeeds less than he should wish.

“Tell me,” The General says quickly to the two of them as Tilghman walks back out the door.

Laurens clasps his hands behind his back, standing close to where Hamilton sits as he gives his report. “We encountered another reconnoitering group, as far as we could determine, and traded fire, some ten miles off at least, around the banks of the Brandywine River.” 

“We used a mill for cover and killed three of their men but two were able to escape,” Hamilton continues.

“And your state?” The General looks down at Hamilton’s leg.

Hamilton swallows self–consciously and attempts to sit more at attention. Laurens, however, answers for him. “He was thrown down the mill stairs by one of the enemy, sir.” The General looks sharply at Laurens, his eyes ticking up and down Laurens’ uniform as if only now noticing the splatters of blood upon it. “That was the Lieutenant Colonel’s only injury as I saw.”

“And did you mark the location of your skirmish?”

“Yes,” Hamilton says. He pulls his journal from his coat pocket and holds it up. “I made a note of a local path and the mill itself.”

Laurens takes the journal then crosses to the small table under the windows as he flips through the journal. “Yes.” He leans over the map of the Pennsylvania wilderness then points. “There. Eleven miles.”

“And our reports of General Howe’s troops landing at Delaware would confirm this.” The General frowns, glancing back at Hamilton. “It would appear they have not made camp.”

Hamilton frowns, trying to stand up from his chair. “Do they march straight on?”

“We have had such reports from Red Clay Creek.” Laurens moves quickly around the General as he speaks to grab Hamilton’s shoulder and push him down again. “Though their numbers as yet uncertain. Did you only see these Rangers?” The General asks.

“Yes,” Hamilton replies, attempting to pull away from Laurens’ efforts. “We saw no larger force yet, even on our ride back.”

“We must assume the Rangers have joined the larger column,” Laurens adds as Hamilton uses Laurens’ arm to pull himself back to standing in contrast to Laurens’ true intent. “They are moving toward us and shall encounter us soon.” 

Laurens frowns at Hamilton but Hamilton pretends to focus only on the General.

The General nods. “And we must be ready to meet them.” He glances between the two of them then out toward he hall. “There is the Marquis de Lafayette?”

Hamilton and Laurens look at each other quickly. Hamilton clears his throat. “The Marquis attends to our horses and should join us later.”

The General makes a ‘hmm’ noise but asks no further. He moves from the two of them back to his desk where he hastily picks up a pencil. Hamilton glances sidelong at Laurens to see him looking back. Laurens raises his eyebrows only. A moment later, the General stands again holding out a sheet of paper to Hamilton.

“Write to Generals Armstrong, Greene, Wayne, Stephens, Sullivan and Stirling so we may convene a council of war upon the matter. I want the letters out of this house within the hour.”

Hamilton and Laurens both salute. Hamilton sees the General give him a searching look, his eyes flicking down. Hamilton tries to stand straighter but flinches in pain despite himself. The General frowns then gestures toward the door. “Dismissed.” 

Hamilton worries, as he pulls the door open, the General may think Hamilton’s injury more of an impediment than he should. Hamilton has no desire to sit out any engagement that may occur.

 

Laurens closes the office door as the two of them step back out into the hall. Laurens sees Hamilton wince once more as they step. He wonders if Hamilton knows how plain the discomfort appears on his face.

“We must sit you down.”

“I have sat.”

Laurens huffs. “Do not dismiss my concern as you know it is warranted.” He grips Hamilton’s arm. “Come.”

Hamilton follows this time without a fuss, the few steps into the parlor, which is now the aide–de–camp office. Tilghman turns where he stands nearest the door as they enter. Harrison stands from the table beside Joseph Reed. Laurens notices John Fitzgerald and Meade are absent now.

“Why, Hamilton!” Reed says with some combination of chastisement and surprise.

Harrison quickly pulls his own chair around and offers it for Hamilton. “What has happened? Tilghman mentioned Queens Rangers but little else.”

“Because they told me nothing else,” Tilghman adds.

“We were set upon by Queens Rangers along the Brandywine,” Laurens explains. “We fought them for some time then escaped back here.”

“After two of theirs escaped,” Hamilton adds, propping his injured leg up on a vacant chair.

Laurens nods. “Yes. It was only a scouting party as our own. We have no more information on their numbers, only that they are closer.”

“It shall be soon.” Hamilton holds up the paper the General gave them. “His Excellency calls for a council of war. We must write to every General now to bring them here.”

Harrison takes the paper, reading it quickly. “Soon?”

Hamilton nods. “As soon as we are able.” 

“Do we not think Howe might bypass us for Philadelphia?” Reed asks as Harrison passes him the letter. Harrison then walks from the room and into the dining room across the hall.

“Reed,” Tilghman scoffs. “It this not a war? Should they not wish to meet us in battle?”

“And should we let them?” Laurens says with a hard tone. “We are the defense and I would not simply give them Philadelphia and Congress.”

Reed frowns in his customary way. “I did not say so!”

Harrison returns with a chair in each hand. He places both at the table and sits down in one. He gestures to Laurens to sit in the other. “Do not squabble,” Harrison chastises them. “We have letters to write and then send with haste.”

Tilghman smirks but says nothing as he sits on the last side of the small table to write with the three other men.

Laurens glances back at Hamilton who looks torn. Laurens turns more fully toward him. “Your task in this moment is to ease your leg.”

“I write quickly and it has naught to do with my leg.”

“And you see there is no space at the table.”

Hamilton gives him a look. “I have a writing desk. I might return to my tent and fetch it.”

“No,” Laurens says as Tilghman huffs, “stay where you are,” Harrison snaps, “quite unnecessary,” and lastly Reed snorts and rolls his eyes such that Laurens wishes to shove the table back into his chest.

Hamilton’s mouth gapes at the combined outburst. He settles his gaze on Laurens, still watching him. Laurens smiles and tries to say more than he may in such mixed company. “Should you wish to ride out with the General come the battle, you must be able to.” Laurens gestures to his leg. “Would you make yourself worse?”

Hamilton breathes out slowly. “My hand is far from my knee.”

Laurens nods indulgently. “Indeed.”

“It is far less an injury than some.”

Laurens purses his lips. “Fortunately we have no worse injuries to speak of.”

“To speak of, yes,” Hamilton says. His expression looks as if he wishes now he had gone with Lafayette to see to his own injury.

“Fear not,” Laurens says quietly. “I doubt the General could keep you from the field should he wish to.”

Tilghman chuckles quietly behind Laurens. Hamilton’s eyes tick to Tilghman for a moment then back to Laurens. He smiles slowly. “Certainly not.”

Laurens smiles back, his eyes lingering on Hamilton’s lips for a breath – wishes he could simply sit by Hamilton and help soothe his wound – before Laurens turns back to the table to write out a quick order for General Wayne. Across the table, Reed makes a sudden offended sounding noise making all three of the other aides at the table look up in surprise.

“Laurens,” Reed says with wide eyes. “Is that blood on your uniform?”

Laurens grins in a rather devilish manner. “Welcome to the war, Reed.”

 

His Excellency, General Washington, his aides–de–camps and his Major Generals meet for several hours to discuss the state of the British advance, their protection of Philadelphia, the army itself and where such a conflict should come to pass. No question arises of when or if a battle should occur. All present at the council of war know a battle should happen in a matter of days.

The focus becomes Chadds Ford as their stronghold and the hoped for point of battle. General Armstrong covers Pyle's Ford further south, Generals Sullivan, Stephens and Stirling command the high ground north leaving the main column with His Excellency, General Wayne and General Greene to await the thick of the battle at the main ford across the Brandywine.

Early in the morning of the eleventh, Meade returns with word, “Maxwell's infantry have met an advance force of the British at Welch's Tavern.”

“But four miles down Nottingham Road,” Tilghman answers. Right on course with their hoped for battle point at Chadds Ford.

The time for battle has arrived.

 

A dense fog lies over the hills below the house and down as far as Hamilton can possibly see. He spies trees every so often but anything further quickly disappears in the fog.

“We shall have a task seeing Howe's advance upon us,” His Excellency beside Hamilton says, as if hearing Hamilton's thoughts.

No one else could be thinking otherwise with such before them. Troops move through the mist as the sun rises higher in the morning. Hamilton hears the sound of gunshots and shouting somewhere in the distance. It is hard to say how close the fighting is now by sound alone. Hamilton's horse fidgets where they sit and Hamilton wonders if his horse desires to ride into the fray as Hamilton does.

“Sir?” Reed comes riding up. “I could not find Colonel Bland.”

General Washington frowns. “No riders with reports of the advance?”

“How close are they?” Hamilton asks before Reed may answer.

Reed shakes his head, pulling at the reigns of his horse. “General Maxwell has been pushed back toward us, I believe. I cannot say more on their number.”

“What of our flank?” Washington asks Harrison on his other side. 

Harrison shakes his head. “Nothing of solid foundation, sir.”

“You fear not just this ford?” Lafayette asks, seated on his horse just behind the General. 

The General breathes out once, the only audible sign of his frustration. “We must have accurate intelligence. In this mire we can take no chances.”

“Shall I write him again?” Hamilton asks, pulling out his portable writing kit from his pocket inside its small metal case.

The General nods once sharply. “Yes, ask his report of troop numbers and ask of his confirmation of British troops at the fords. I must know for certain.”

Hamilton turns his horse about, patting in on the neck then sliding down carefully. He pulls some paper from his saddlebag, pulls down his travel writing desk and sits in the grass. He sets up his small pot of ink and writes quickly as he is able. He hears the sound of cannon below them, some faint cheers though they could also be screams. Hamilton wipes at the sweat on his face and pulls at his collar. The heat does nothing to alleviate the dangers of the fog. It seems an Arthurian story with their fighting hidden behind veils and their senses dulled. Hamilton cannot help thinking of Laurens. He rode out with a message for Sullivan's brigade and has yet to return.

“Hamilton?” Hamilton looks up at Meade standing over where Hamilton sits. Meade holds out his hand. “Now?”

Hamilton writes faster, his penmanship suffering – _What number It consists of, and the Road they are now on_ – then signs the note for the General and holds it up to Meade. “For Bland.” He stoppers his ink. “Be safe, Kidder.”

Meade smiles and nods at him as he folds the letter. Then he hurries down the hill back toward his horse. Hamilton stands up once more, shoving his quill and ink back in the metal cylinder then hidden away once more in his coat. He puts the strap of the writing desk over his head and decides better to wear it now. They will surely need more intelligence soon. 

Hamilton climbs back onto his horse, the desk knocking into his spine, but he ignores such trifling pains. His days of rest helped his knee, though it remains sore. Once in seat again, he looks off to the left through the fog, as though he could see up the hills to where Laurens may lie. He feels a pang in his heart as he did in the mill – fear for one he cares for more.

“Come back, Laurens,” he whispers to himself.

As if in answer, Hamilton sees a man riding out of the mist. He watches the horse's hooves, the man's coat blowing with the speed, then he sees Laurens' face. Hamilton digs his heals into his horse's flank and rides out to meet Laurens.

“Laurens!” Hamilton calls as they near.

Laurens huffs as their horse shift alongside each other. Laurens holds several pieces of paper in his hand. “For the General. Such conflicting reports.” He breaths in deeply. “Come, we must...”

Hamilton squeezes Laurens' hand holding the letters and the two of them urge their horses forward back to the General.

“Sir!” Hamilton shouts at they canter to a halt beside his Excellency.

The General turns his head even as Laurens holds out the letters within his reach. The General hands one to Harrison to open as the General opens another.

“General Sullivan feared his position,” Laurens explains, “sent scouts of his own. Most report nothing but there has been one sighting at Buffington's Ford.”

His Excellency looks up sharply. “Is there truth in this?”

“We have had no other such reports,” Harrison says. “It could be false.”

“The fighting is fierce along the main road,” Reed adds. “We have no reason to believe a split in Howe's forces.”

“We do not know his numbers,” Hamilton cautions. “They did not make a camp we could count.”

“And have you had no other report?” Laurens asks.

“Less than we should wish,” Hamilton replies.

“The Quakers have their Loyalist leanings more than to our cause,” Reed says darkly.

Hamilton sees Laurens flash a look at Reed but he says nothing.

“We cannot afford such doubts,” his Excellency replies. “Meade has only just left to gain more intelligence from Colonel Bland.”

“Tilghman has not yet retuned,” Harrison says. “What of Fitzgerald?”

Laurens shakes his head. “Last I saw him among Stirling's men.”

“If he has the troop,” Lafayette says, pushing his horse up closer alongside General Washington, “would he not do as you say... eh, break his men?” Lafayette gestures toward the Ford then up the hill. “Cacher dans le brouillard?”

“Hide in the fog,” Hamilton repeats for Lafayette. He looks at Laurens who shakes his head, a wary expression his face.

“Sir!”

The whole group turns to see Tilghman riding toward them. He pulls his horse up sharply so they barely stop in time before knocking into Reed's horse. He holds out a letter, breathing heavily. “From a Lieutenant Colonel Ross, British troops at the rear, at Taylor and Jefferies fords.” 

Hamilton looks sharply at Laurens again. “North.”

“On our flank,” Laurens says, “the report must have the right.”

“It says General Howe is among then,” Tilghman adds with a gasp.

Hamilton sees the General's expression harden. He takes the letters, reading them quickly. Then nods. “Send an order to General Sullivan to take command of the whole, Stirling and Stephen's brigades. They are to march north and meet General Howe.”

Tilghman nods quickly as he and Harrison start furiously writing commands for each General. Hamilton pulls out his kit again to help.

“Sir?” Hamilton glances at Laurens as he speaks. The General turns to at Laurens. “Permission to join General Sullivan's ranks for the remainder of the battle.”

The General raises his eyebrows. “You wish to fight, Laurens?”

Laurens nods. “I aim to help as I can. The confusion of the reports is problem enough now but I have the accurate reports and I am glad to lend my sword to this as well. The men are nervous with such fog blinding us and I would wish to add my confidence.” Laurens makes a face. “I am but a volunteer and I would volunteer for this.”

The General’s expression shifts, not so much surprise but a resigned expectation. “Go then.” Harrison hands a finished letter to the General, which he passes off to Laurens. “Report to Sullivan and inform him of his command.”

Laurens folds the letter and slides it into his pocket. He turns his horse about the way he came but Hamilton trots after him quickly.

“You mean to fight?” Hamilton asks. 

Laurens shoots him a look. “This battle is tangled and confused; we need every sword.”

Hamilton huffs. “And all intelligence, why trade one for the other now?”

“You have not ridden out far yet, Hamilton, the men are frightened. Such sounds of battle without proper sight and the heat making them muddled. I fear for a victory with such disorder.”

Hamilton nods, seeing the expression on Laurens' face – fire and passion and eagerness. “Yes, and you would join them.”

“I must.” He looks straight at Hamilton again. He reaches out and touches Hamilton's cheek. “Please, be safe.”

Hamilton huffs. “I would say such to you.”

Laurens pulls his hand back quickly, his eyes darting to those too near behind them. Then he presses his lips together tightly. “I shall be so.” He leans forward in his saddle. “Until after the battle.”

Hamilton grips Laurens' hand quickly, squeezes once so Laurens smiles then Laurens rides away, the fog swallowing him quickly from Hamilton's sight.

 

Laurens slashes his sword down into the face of a man in a redcoat, brown hair whipping in the man’s face and his bayonet inches away from Laurens' horse. The man twists and falls so Laurens' horse leaps right over the prone form. Laurens forces his horse on through the trees. He knows the mare tires now after more than an hour of their ride through the battle. Sullivan and Stirling’s men have mixed so that many do not know whose orders they follow. Laurens has tried to push them forward through the enemy lines but the fog has not abated and they can see little to know whom they fight.

“No, no!” Laurens hears a shout off to his left.

He hears another scream and the sound of cannon. A tree bursts into bits not a foot to Laurens' right so splinters of wood hit him in the face. Laurens' horse rears and whinnies, Laurens barely keeping his seat. He kicks her in the side, pushes them forward through the trees. Laurens stabs his sword through the belly of a Private just before the enemy shoots a continental man as Laurens rides past. Laurens hears the gasp of surprise from the Briton and an answering gasp from the American he nearly killed. Then they are gone, Laurens leaving them behind. 

“Onward!” Laurens shouts, attempting to encourage the men further right in the direction of what should be the main line of battle.

He can only hope he keeps his directions straight. They must push together so all of Sullivan's troops join Stirling's and Stephen's. They are to form lines on Birmingham hill. Though he certainly has no accurate count, Laurens is sure the British out number them here. Lauren keeps riding, his sword drawn. Suddenly, he feels hands on his leg and a man tries to pull him from his saddle. 

“Come down, ye –”

Laurens lashes out with the handle of his sword, hitting the man in the nose. As the man falls, blood on Laurens' hand and blood from the man’s nostrils, Laurens sees a Maryland uniform. He wonders if the man even knew which side Laurens fights.

Then Laurens feels his horse jerk, her hooves skipping a step. He hears the second musket shot just as his horse falls onto her neck, throwing Laurens wide. Laurens hits the ground before he thinks to protect himself, before he realizes he falls. He shouts with the impact, rolls once and his back hits a tree. The leaves above his head spin, a blur of green and yellow and brown. Then Laurens sucks in a breath, coughing and tightening his fist around his sword in hand. How did he not let it go as he fell? His hat is gone, his hair fallen into his eyes. He shoves his back up against the tree, his sword pointed out. Laurens then sees a man rushing toward him. He blinks away the fuzziness of his countenance and drags himself upward with the tree for support.

“Rebel!” The man shouts.

Laurens sees the deep brown of the man’s eyes and dodges to the left away from the tree. The man's bayonet buries deep into the bark of the tree. He could have pinned Laurens there through his stomach with such force. Laurens kicks the man in the shin so he falls to his knees. He pulls at his rifle, trying to free the bayonet. Laurens slashes down with his sword but the man heaves up his arm to protect his face, taking the blow there. Laurens' blade only cuts through cloth as Laurens spins with the force. Then the man's bayonet breaks free and he lunges for Laurens again.

“No!” Laurens snaps, clashing metal on metal, sword on bayonet.

“Fuck!” The man yelps and uses his hip to knock Laurens' back, breaking their weapons apart. “Think your sword’s so better, eh?”

“I think you'll fall!” Laurens shouts, lunging forward, ducking low unexpectedly so he tackles the man into the dirt.

The man stabs up feebly with his bayonet once but the rifle is too long. Laurens brings down the pommel of his sword into the man's teeth. He screams and grabs at Laurens' throat, his nails digging into skin. Then Laurens hits him with the pommel again, hearing bone break. The man sags and shakes, blood bubbling up in his throat. Laurens pulls himself back and up to standing. By the time Laurens' feet stay steady, the broken solider at his feet stops moving.

Laurens turns away. He breathes in deeply, blows out air again but his breath tries to come faster, to seize in his lungs. Laurens stares into the woods around him – his horse twitching feet away, blood dripping off Laurens' hand, two men running into the fog, scratches on Laurens’ face, the flash of a musket shot. Laurens sucks in another deep breath.

“Keep your head,” he says to himself.

He reaches up and wipes at the blood on his face with his other hand. He looks about the dead leaves and dirt then sees his hat. He picks it up with one hand and shoves it tight on his head. Then he quickly sheathes his sword. He crouches down and picks up the dead man's musket, taking his powder bag and bullets. Laurens ducks back behind a tree, readying his powder and shot. He spits the scrap of cloth onto the ground then cocks the rifle. Laurens turns around the edge of the tree, peering into the fog. Sweat drips down his hairline, mingling with the blood and he wonders how much dirt coats his hair and clothes. Then he sees a British red coat – no, no – it is not red, it is Green. The uniform is a Queen's Ranger. The Ranger drags a boy by his collar.

“Traitor bastards, you –” He yanks at the boy's hair as he pulls.

The boy struggles, blood on his chest and clawing at the Ranger’s hand. “No, stop – you fucking –”

“Hang you high if you –”

Laurens fires his shot and the Ranger snaps back, his arms flying up as the boy falls with a thump onto the dirt. The Ranger stumbles forward onto his knees, blood streaming from the wound in his cheek. He gasps and blood flows into his mouth as he tries to cover the facial wound. The boy the Ranger dragged rolls over onto his knees and suddenly punches the Ranger right into his wound. The man howls and falls onto his back. 

Laurens stands again, watching no longer and leaves the rifle with his dead foe. He cannot spare time again to load shot. He pulls his sword free from its sheath once more and hurries into the fog. The troops within the trees are clearly in a disarray but they have no choice but to push on. He does not know the advance of the British or how they fare. 

“Keep on!” Laurens says to each Continental soldier he meets. “Forward!”

Laurens continues on foot, running as he can through the fog. He chops through British soldiers, his sword in front of his chest as he goes. He thinks most he may not kill as his blade grows duller but they still fall before him. Laurens runs through a break in the trees out into a field. He finds what looks to be Stirling's line attempting for form positions in the field; this must be Birmingham hill for which he makes.

“Laurens!”

Laurens looks up at the approach of a horse. He sees Fitzgerald in seat upon a dapple gray.

“Fitzgerald!” Laurens cries. “What is the state of the battle?”

Fitzgerald shakes his head. “The British attack up the hill.” Fitzgerald points toward what must be the distant lines. “Stirling was not able to make full position and we have been pushed back at least once. I do not know of Stephen's brigade. Are you well?”

Laurens nods. “Yes, if it the blood you fear, I can tell you most does not belong to me.”

Fitzgerald huffs. “Make that you keep it so. Hamilton asks after you.”

“He remains with his Excellency?” Laurens asks, suddenly irrationally afraid for Hamilton fighting through men to find him.

“Yes, as last I knew,” Fitzgerald replies and Laurens gasps in relief. “If I should see you, he bid me tell you that he fears a retreat.”

Laurens' eyes widen. “But Chad's Ford? We held it, did we not?”

Fitzgerald shakes his head. “For some time but now we fear this flank is the full strength. Our hope for the battle at the Ford was more a diversion from Howe with less of his men.”

“Blast,” Laurens curses.

“I must be on!” Fitzgerald says, kicking his horse once. “Stay safe!”

Laurens turns away and moves toward the forming lines, men dashing about in confusion, the line across the field curved and gaping. Laurens looks for one of the Colonels. He is unsure who would be in command. Then he hears the boom of a cannon. He turns to see a blast of dirt as the shot hits the ground far too near. Laurens turns his head away from the flying clods of earth. Then he shouts in pain as something smashes into his ankle. Laurens buckles and falls onto his shoulder, losing his hat. He sees the cannon ball and knows it hit him. Laurens coughs away dirt and dust. He rolls onto his back and clutches at his ankle. His boot looks cracked but it was not a musket shot; there is no blood.

“Damn,” Laurens moans, biting his lip. 

He tries to stand with his weight on his other leg. When he shifts so his weight is evenly placed a shock of pain shoots up his injured leg so he falls down onto his knees again with the surprise. Laurens gasps but knows he cannot stay here, not in his vulnerable position. 

Laurens turns just in time to see a man emerging from the wood, a tall pointed hat, a Hessian. He aims his musket at Laurens. Laurens flips himself to the right and hears the sound of the bullet near his ear. He waves his hand wide as if to somehow stop the shot with this motion but he feels nothing. Then the Hessian is above him. He hits Laurens with a fist in the jaw, pinning him to the dirt with his hips and hands around Laurens' neck.

“Stirb jetzt!”

Laurens struggles, grasps around beside him in the grass for his fallen sword. He reaches up for the Hessian's throat, his uniform, anything Laurens can use to push him away. Laurens' chest grows tight, his throat pained, he needs to breathe – to breathe! Laurens view grows dimmer, the world beginning to narrow to just the man's face – his mustache, the metal on his hat, blood on his lip, the white of his teeth. Laurens thinks of Hamilton’s beautiful blue eyes. Then he slides his hand up the man's cheek and digs his fingers into the Hessian's eye. The man howls and jerks away. Laurens sucks in a ragged breath, coughing and gasping again. He has never been so conscious of air flowing into his lungs. The Hessian reels back up again. Laurens shoves himself back and away from the man's grabbing hands.

“Stop!” Laurens shouts.

The Hessian pulls a short axe from his belt. “Verdammter Teufel!”

Laurens reaches reflexively behind him, as though he knows now where his salvation lies; he feels the handle of his sword. Laurens grips it tight and swings the blade wide. The axe clangs and flies from the Hessians hand. Laurens heaves forward where he sits and the sharp point of the blade impales in the man's chest. His eyes bug wide then Laurens yanks his sword back out with a spurt of blood. The Hessian falls forward onto Laurens' legs. Laurens shouts in pain as the man's weight twists Laurens' wounded ankle, blood staining his breeches. Laurens drags himself backward away from the man's death throws. He stares for a moment as the man stills then turns to his left where he sees his fallen hat. Laurens picks it up, puts it back on his head then tries to stand once more, stabbing his sword into the dirt to lean on. This time Laurens manages to stay standing. However, he takes one step and the pain blinds him again. He cannot fight like this. He cannot properly walk and even should he limp, he will be too slow.

Laurens sees more British troops charging down the hill, the British lines advancing against the unprepared American position. Laurens thinks into the swirl of his mind, the heat of the day tight around him and fog dense over the ground, that he may die in his first battle.

“Laurens!”

Laurens turns at his name toward the trees. He sees a horse riding toward him cutting through the fog, the bright blue of a uniform and then red hair in the sun. The horse stops abruptly beside him and Laurens looks up into Hamilton's shinning face. 

“Laurens,” Hamilton says, “You are hurt!”

“Hamilton...”

Hamilton holds tight to his saddle then reaches his arm out and down to Laurens. “Come, take my hand!”

Laurens sheathes his sword and grips Hamilton's hand. Laurens grabs onto the back of the saddle then Hamilton pulls hard. Laurens manages to climb into seat behind Hamilton. He wraps his arms tight about Hamilton's chest, buries his face in the back of Hamilton's neck, his hair, breathes in deeply and has a strange sense of safety among the shouts and shots and noise. Then Hamilton kicks once and the horse springs to life, cantering them across the field.

 

Hamilton pushes his horse faster, weaving through enemy and friendly troops alike. He rides now to try and find the Generals Stirling and Stephen. He feels Laurens' grip shift behind him, loosening some as he sits taller and speaks in Hamilton's ear.

“Why are you here?”

“I go to find Stirling and Stephens. We have heard word Sullivan's forces have been routed but we must hold the hill.”

Laurens suddenly pulls one arm away from around Hamilton. Hamilton hears Laurens draw his sword once more. Then he sees the solider try to grab for them – their horse, their person, Hamilton cannot say – but Laurens slashes the man's cheek and he falls as they ride on. 

“Do not stop,” Laurens says, his sword still out where Hamilton can see it at their side. “Many of the forces which pursue Sullivan are spread out in the trees.”

They continue through the field behind the American lines. Hamilton knew Sullivan's brigade had been routed but Sterling's here seems more controlled. The lines remain and men fire into the fog. Hamilton sees figures with redcoats coming down the hill.

“Forward!” A voice shouts and the American lines press upward.

Cannons fire into the column and one cannonball hits the line just behind their horse so men scream and Laurens ducks against Hamilton's back. Hamilton kicks his horse on faster.

“How are you injured?” Hamilton asks as they ride.

“What?” Laurens gasps.

“You are injured. You could not stand, I saw. Are you shot?” Laurens groans once as Hamilton's horse jumps a dead body. “Laurens, tell me.” Hamilton begins to fear that Laurens loses blood as they ride and Hamilton should change his course.

“I am not shot,” Laurens finally says, his one hand fisting on the lapel of Hamilton’s uniform.

Hamilton lets go of the reigns with his one hand and grip's Laurens’. “Then what?”

“I am well, Hamilton. You must ride now!”

Laurens squeezes Hamilton fingers back. Hamilton huffs then grabs the reigns with both hands again. He follows the line on; some points further up the hill and others where the fighting is near on top of them. 

A British Lieutenant on horseback rides across their path so their horses nearly collide. He fires his side arm toward them, narrowly missing Hamilton's face. He hears Laurens shout once behind him.

“Laurens!”

However, as they come alongside the British rider, Hamilton hears Laurens' sword clash against the Lieutenant's gun. The Lieutenant shoves them back, Hamilton and Laurens both heaving to the side in the saddle. Neither of them fall, however. The British Regular starts to pull his own sword but Hamilton urges their horse forward so it trots in front of the man. Hamilton grabs at the other horse’s reigns so the horse bucks in anger making its rider shout in surprise. Then Laurens hits him with the pommel of his sword and the Regular falls off this horse.

“Go, go,” Hamilton urges his horse forward again, kicking it into a canter.

“I could have taken that horse,” Laurens says at they ride on.

“What?”

“I slow you down.” Laurens shifts so he speaks in Hamilton's ear. “I could go back for his horse.”

“You will go back for nothing,” Hamilton snaps and does not slow them down.

They soon find themselves weaving around bodies, British and American alike. Hamilton knows they must be nearer Stirling’s position. Hamilton sees a building in the distance up a smaller hill. The shape does not appear to be a house. Then he recognizes it as a Quaker meetinghouse.

“Hamilton!”

Hamilton slows his horse as he sees a young man come running up. It appears to be one of General Stirling's aides–de–camp. Hamilton cannot remember his name.

“Come,” he says gesturing at a point behind the meetinghouse. “Follow me.”

They trot after the man as he speaks. “Stephen's brigade has been forced to retreat. We try to hold here and allow cover for Stirling's men to retreat as well. There is no longer any chance to take the hill.”

“What?” Laurens cries.

The aide huffs with effort as he hurries alongside them. “Howe's men and his Hessians over take us on three sides. They have pushed us back four or five times. We have no more ground to take.”

As they climb the hill, the bodies become thicker on the ground. Hamilton cannot tell friend from foe. His horse hesitates, slowing as it tries to find a clear path to step.

“Enough, dismount,” Laurens says.

“What is the state of the troops then?” Hamilton asks the aide. “So many casualties?”

The man shakes his head as Hamilton stops the horse. The aide helps Laurens down from the saddle and Hamilton jumps after him.

“The fog...” the man trials off.

“Marquis!” Laurens suddenly shouts.

Hamilton turns as Laurens starts to run with a pronounced limp up the hill. The aide looks after Laurens in surprise. Hamilton thinks to shout at Laurens to stop but knows it will do no good. He gives chase then sees the source of Laurens' concern. At the peak, shouting to a line of retreating men stands the Marquis de Lafayette. Hamilton sees the line of the British in the distance.

“Hold. Fire!” Lafayette shouts as a line of Pennsylvania troops fire into the line, more for cover than offense.

Hamilton thinks for a moment Lafayette appears every bit the General – his arm raised, voice loud, as confident as he was at the mill. He was made to lead. Then Laurens reaches the Marquis and Hamilton sees the blood coating Lafayette's calf.

“Marquis!” Hamilton shouts as he joins them. “You are wounded!”

Lafayette shakes his head and gestures for the retreating troops to follow their Lieutenant. “Order! Good order!”

“Come away, Marquis, another may secure the line!”

Lafayette shakes Laurens off. “I shall stay.” He hobbles along the line of soldiers as they reload their muskets. “Again! Rapide!”

Some British soldiers drawer nearer, several breaking the line as if to charge the Pennsylvanian regiment. Laurens shakes his head hard then pushes through the American line. 

“Wait!” Hamilton shouts, reaching after Laurens' arm, but Laurens keeps moving.

Laurens grabs one man who holds a short sword and pulls him forward. The two of them charge for the exposed British. Hamilton sees Laurens nearly fall once with whatever leg wound he sustains. Then he dodges a bayonet thrust and plunges his sword into the gullet of his opponent.

“Il est fou,” Lafayette whispers as he watches Laurens. 

“Yes,” Hamilton says as Laurens ducks a bayonet jab and stabs another enemy in the stomach. “Quite mad.”

Then Lafayette grits his teeth, his hand clutching toward his leg wound. 

“You have done your most,” Hamilton says. He gestures to the ordered column passing below the hill. “The men retreat well and shall escape. But you may suffer gravely from your wound if you stay.”

“Non,” Lafayette says. “We are not done.” He then shouts at the readied Americans. “Fire!”

Hamilton turns to see Laurens and his conscript charging back through the lines, both ducking under the muskets as they fire a volley again.

“Back! Back!” Lafayette says to the covering troops. Lafayette attempts to move with the line but nearly falls and cries out.

“Both of you!” Hamilton snaps as Laurens limps back over to them. “We must withdraw now.” He points at Lafayette. “You require a surgeon.”

“The retreat...” Lafayette says but his teeth bare from the pain and Laurens moves to hold him up.

“Come,” Laurens says, “we will help you. It is madness to remain.”

Lafayette gives Laurens an incredulous look. “Tu m'appelles fou?”

“Yes, you are no better!” Hamilton snaps at Laurens.

Laurens shoots him a look and Hamilton shakes his head. He wants to tell Laurens it is the same as the mill. It is Laurens' life and Hamilton is not ready after so short a time to lose him. 

“Marquis! Lieutenant Colonels!” They turn to see General Conway ride up on his horse. “We are making a stand to see the men out.” He grins, his sword drawn and his hat at an angle. “Get him along. We shall continue our cover.”

“I shall assist,” Lafayette starts but Laurens drags him back even as he tries to step up to Conway.

Conway looks down and sees the Frenchman's wound. “Get him away. Down the road there should be a house where some wounded are taken. They can aid him.”

Hamilton nods once. “Thank you, sir.”

“Non, c'est –”

“No,” Hamilton interrupts Lafayette before he may argue more. “You must withdraw or you shall have no leg for your next battle!”

Laurens looks at Hamilton then grabs one of Lafayette's arms. “Come along.”

Hamilton grips Lafayette's other arm and the two of the drag the Marquis away as General Conway shouts orders once more. Lafayette sags somewhat in their grip, groaning with pain. Hamilton thinks the heat and thrill of battle must have allowed the Marquis to push through his own pain until this moment. Hamilton looks up at Laurens, sees a grimace on his face as well. Hamilton’s own knee is not completely sound from their skirmish days ago.

“What a trio of injuries we make now,” Hamilton says.

Lafayette and Laurens both laugh, Lafayette's ending with a soft cry. They hear more gunshots behind them and Hamilton hurries them on, following the retreating column.

“Do not fear, Lafayette,” Hamilton says. “We shall not lose you so soon.” He glances at Laurens over the Lafayette's head. “I will lose no friends today.”

Laurens looks back at him and only nods.

 

Lafayette shouts in pain when they heave him up onto the dining room table. The owner of the house, whom Laurens has not learned the name of, brings in a bottle of brandy. He says something about 'tavern' and 'not our custom' but Laurens pays him little mind, focusing on Lafayette.

Laurens helps Lafayette prop his head up and take a sip of the brandy. “Has word been sent to General Washington?”

Hamilton rushes out into the hall where about half a dozen other soldiers congregate. A few also have sustained wounds and stopped here along the retreat.

Hamilton reappears in the doorway. “One of Conway's men tells that their General sent a messenger almost upon the Marquis first wounding.”

Lafayette laughs. “Suis-je si important?”

“Yes, very important. Have you not noticed, Marquis?” Laurens says, keeping as much levity as he is able to his voice. “It is there in your title.”

“I shall station a man on the road, should any come looking for the Marquis,” Hamilton says as he lights some candles in the growing darkness of the evening.

“His wound should be seen to.” Laurens looks up at the owner of the house as he speaks – he must be a Quaker from his black dress and serious manner. “We have water and cloth but little else.”

“I did not expect a doctor when we came to your door,” Laurens explains. “I thank you enough for the welcome.”

The man only nods then leaves the room. Laurens believes them lucky to be allowed entry to a Quaker house at all. Most claim neutrality in the war, which often leads to Loyalist alignment even should they desire not to. Laurens cannot claim any love for the Quaker indifference but now is not the time for such thought.

Laurens moves to the foot of the table and pulls at Lafayette's boot. Lafayette cries out but then he grips the edges of the table, Laurens tugs again and the boots comes off. Lafayette shouts once in pain and bangs his first on the table. Hamilton brings one candle to the table and sets it beside Lafayette's head. Hamilton then moves to Lafayette's wounded leg. Laurens carefully rolls down Lafayette's stocking while Hamilton unbuttons the bottom of his breeches.

“We should follow the line and look for a surgeon,” Hamilton says as he stares down at the now visible wound.

Laurens hands Hamilton cloth from the Quakers to put over the wound. “We should be lucky at all to find one what with so many men in the retreat and the darkness.”

“We cannot carry him to Chester!” Hamilton hisses as he presses the cloth hard against the wound, so Lafayette whimpers softly, and ties it in place.

Laurens gestures to Lafayette's leg and their hasty stemming of the blood flow. “Do you think to remove the bullet ourselves?”

“Ce n'est pas si mal...” Lafayette mutters, waving his hand up at them.

“And what of the wound in your side? You recall? The one you concealed?” Laurens says with some frustration. 

Lafayette laughs once, the tone weak. “Je ne me souviens pas.”

“Non? Cela ne te fait–il pas mal?” Laurens snaps wishing he could shake Lafayette now. “I recall it! Such efforts you made to conceal that injury and yet you find yourself another?”

Lafayette scoffs then winces. “Non... non...”

Hamilton grips Laurens' arm and pulls him away from the table, speaking in a hush. “Enough. We must focus on the matter most pressing.” Laurens sighs but Hamilton continues. “I know Conway sent word and no doubt his Excellency will send a surgeon but will they find us is the question. Such darkness and the retreat of a full army...”

“As I said,” Laurens insists.

“Yes, just so,” Hamilton replies in a soothing tone. “But how long should we wait?”

Laurens opens his mouth to reply when a knock comes at the dining room door. They turn around to see the aide of Stirling's from when they rode up the hill.

“Sirs?” he says. Then he steps to the side and a man holding a bag appears in view behind him. “General Washington sent a surgeon.”

Laurens mouth widens in surprise. “You found us?”

The man gives him a look. “There are few houses on the route and we aimed to check each one. This is only the second.”

“Welcome,” Hamilton says and gestures them inside. “The Marquis has a bullet in his calf, if the wound is any measure.”

The surgeon nods and sets straight to work, taking metal instruments from his bag and quickly tying a leather strap tightly around Lafayette's leg above the wound.

“Comment est la douleur?” The aide asks Lafayette.

Lafayette groans. “Mal.”

“You speak French?” Hamilton asks the man.

He turns back to them and nods. “That is why the General sent me.”

Laurens laughs once at the irony as Hamilton holds out his hand. “I apologize we never had the opportunity on the field to be properly introduced.”

The man takes Hamilton's hand. “James Monroe, and you are Hamilton.”

Hamilton smiles and gestures to Laurens. “Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens.”

“Ah, yes.” Monroe smiles appreciatively. “Recently added to General Washington's staff?” Then his expression shifts into confusion. “Do you not both speak French?”

Laurens raises his eyebrows. “Indeed.”

“Gentlemen!” The surgeon suddenly snaps. “You may enjoy your pleasant conversation at a later time, now I would wish to save the Marquis' leg and his life.”

Lafayette laughs again, leaning up to drink some of the brandy the surgeon offers. “Oui, merci.” He looks up at Laurens and Hamilton as he lies back down. “Vilain, vilain.”

Laurens scoffs and shakes his head again. Hamilton grips Lafayette's hand once, squeezing. Then the two of them bow their goodbyes and leave Monroe to aid the surgeon in any way needed. They walk out into the hall, closing the door to the dining room behind them. Four soldiers still wait in the dark hall, only two candles lit near the door.

“If you are able to walk, join the retreat,” Laurens tells them. “If you wait to learn of the Marquis' health, the surgeon is with him now. So you may go.”

The men turn and make for the front door, two saluting and at least one murmuring 'yes, sir.' They all look as tired at Laurens himself feels. As the last man exits and the door closes, Hamilton grips Laurens by the arm and pulls him into the house's front parlor. Laurens sees none of the household within, though three candles light the room. They must sequester upstairs now or in the kitchen until such disturbances of their house are gone. Hamilton steers Laurens over to a chair and pushes him down into it.

Hamilton crouches down at Laurens's side. “I see you said nothing to the surgeon of your own injury.”

“He is here for the Marquis,” Laurens says as he pulls at his boot, knowing Hamilton's aim. “And I have no bullet within my leg.”

Hamilton shoots him a glare. “But you are still wounded.” 

Laurens places his boot aside then rolls down his stocking. Hamilton picks up the closest candle and puts it on the floor near them. Laurens easily sees the wound, though the skin does not appear broken. Laurens attempts to roll his ankle around then hisses at the sudden pain this movement causes. It is not as though he were not aware of the injury as they walked here but he forced himself to think more of Lafayette's need than his own.

“This should not be walked on,” Hamilton says, looking closely at the wound. “It is swollen now.”

Laurens suddenly realizes the odd intimacy of this moment – Hamilton knelt so close, Laurens baring more skin, the darkness and near privacy of the room. Laurens breathes in slowly to calm the sudden elevation of his heart. He watches the dip of Hamilton's head, his fingers hovering over Laurens' skin as though he wants to touch. Laurens watches the light on Hamilton's lips and thinks how much he should wish to kiss Hamilton now.

“Laurens?”

“Hmm?”

“I said, we should find you a horse.”

“Oh.”

Hamilton smiles a little. “I cannot allow you to walk so far as our retreat shall be.”

Laurens clicks his tongue. “Would you suggest I take the surgeon's horse?”

Hamilton sighs but he smiles still. “An entire army marches near. We shall find you a ride.”

Laurens nods. “As you say.”

Hamilton looks down at Laurens' wound again. Even in the dim light, Laurens sees the angry purple and blue of his flesh. However, there is little either of them may do for such a wound. His bones feel sound and there is no bullet to remove. Hamilton shifts back on his heels and drops his hand. Laurens oddly wants to tell him that Hamilton may touch him if Hamilton should wish.

“Laurens, I...” Hamilton glances up at Laurens again, shift up onto his knees so he kneels closer to Laurens. “I am relieved you were not wounded more severely than this.”

Laurens nods back, wants to pull Hamilton closer still. “I am pleased you found me.”

“I imagine you should have kept on fighting despite this. I know what honor you strive for and what passion you have.”

“I planned to.”

Hamilton chuckles. “With the British pushing us back so, no doubt we will meet them again soon lest they take Philadelphia.”

“Hamilton...” Laurens does not want to talk about the fight now, not when Hamilton kneels right beside him, not when they are alone. Instead, Laurens takes Hamilton's hand. “I would not talk of the war now.”

Hamilton glances at the open doorway and his voice lowers. “I know we have had little time yet and we have only just fought a battle.”

“Yes.”

“And you injured now and our skirmish at the mill, I injured then, and this battle. I do not know what future we shall see in such peril.”

“Hamilton...”

“We have our duties, I know but I would prefer a chance still to... with such intimacies as we have shared and yet still not enough... I...”

Laurens touches Hamilton's cheek, leans close and suddenly kisses Hamilton once. His words stop and he stiffens with surprise. Then Hamilton kisses Laurens back – both their lips still hesitant, still new, still few times touching and knowing each other. Then Laurens pulls away again, daring nothing more brazen in a stranger's house.

“You talk so, Hamilton,” Laurens chides with humor.

Hamilton laughs once, his expression shy and Laurens' hand still on his cheek.

“And trust my words, that I understand your feeling and that I would wish for more time alone with you to know you better.” Laurens sighs and pulls his hand away because they are not truly alone – a family upstairs and a medical room across the hall. “A pity that time is not now.”

Hamilton glances around the room. “No, and not here.” 

Hamilton shifts back once more then hands Laurens his stocking and his boot. Laurens takes both, pulling his stocking on, followed carefully by his boot. Laurens feels Hamilton’s eyes on him until Hamilton stands up. Once attired, Laurens stands as well and tests the nature of his step. He feels instantly that he will limp wherever he should walk for some days at least.

“We should go,” Laurens says. “We must find his Excellency once more. You certainly have been absent longer than he would expect.”

Hamilton nods. “And Lafayette is under care now.”

Laurens takes a few limping steps then Hamilton moves close to him. He grips Laurens' arm and puts it over his own shoulders.

“As I said,” Hamilton begins as they move toward the front hall and the door. “You shall need a horse.”

“My heels will work less than they should in my stirrups. Have you thought of that?” Laurens asks, mostly in jest.

Hamilton huffs. “If you worry for that, then I shall limp the whole walk with you.”

Laurens smiles, thinks the two of them walking together through the night to be a most charming diversion, even be it from injury and in retreat after a battle.

“I shall accept either outcome,” Laurens says quietly.

Hamilton only laughs this time, wrapping his other arm around Laurens' back to support him more.

As they walk to the door, Hamilton and Laurens look at each other. The battle may have been a defeat – so many men lost and injured and the British march advanced toward Philadelphia – but now they two smile at each other, spirits high and both alive.

**Author's Note:**

> This series is in the process of becoming a book, to keep up with the progress check out the book website [Duty and Inclination](https://www.dutyandinclination.com/) and my author [facebook page](https://www.facebook.com/DupontWrites).


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